


Five Stages

by Shapeshifter99



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 9x23 Coda, Angst, M/M, Mourning, season nine finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 03:49:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1673558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shapeshifter99/pseuds/Shapeshifter99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel learned from Metatron that there were five stages of grief. The Kübler-Ross model.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Stages

Castiel learned from Metatron that there were five stages of grief. The Kübler-Ross model. Along with the billions of other tidbits of information that he gained with a knowledge of pop culture, he knows all five. He’d never experienced them personally, not as a human, and definitely not as an angel. The closest he’d come to that was either when God left, and after the Fall, and even then, he’d skipped some. With God, it had been denial-anger-acceptance. With the Fall, depression and acceptance.

“To save Dean Winchester. That was your goal, right? I mean, you drape yourself in the flag of Heaven, but ultimately, it was all about saving one human, right?”

But he’d never truly experienced the full brunt of grief until he was sat in a chair and told that Dean Winchester was dead.

“Well, guess what? He’s dead too.”

A heartbeat of... Nothing. Cas’ gaze is still unable to meet Metatron, stony with disbelief. His body locks up, freezes with shock. His mind goes blank, as if wiped clean of anything and everything. Then, one single thought arises, a shout that echoes through his very being like a crack of thunder, yet seems as quiet as a feather falling at the same time.

_No._

Step one: denial.

He turns his face towards Metatron, feels a ripping, searing agony burst through him. His heart contracts in his chest to the point of pain, and his grief is so severe it blacks out the burning grace inside him. He feels his throat constrict, choke down any sounds of horror and despair that might try to get out.

He takes a breath in an attempt to soothe himself; it’s ragged, agonized. Hot tears prick at his eyes, making them glassy and blurring his vision. His face contorts, pulling his mouth down and he can’t do anything but stare at Metatron, burning and grieving and furious. He moves to get up, to stab Metatron, to throttle him, to kill him, to make him _pay_ \- Metatron snaps his fingers and suddenly Castiel is cuffed to the chair.

“You see,” Metatron continues idly, drawing out a blade from his jacket. “You didn’t read enough. You’ve never learned how to tell a good story.” The scribe’s fingers wrap around the silver hilt. Castiel’s eyes immediately zero in on the scarlet blood staining the blade, and sees more blood decorating Metatron’s knuckles. _Dean’s_ blood.

The angel feels another surge of rage mingled with pain, red and blue surging behind his eyes. He spits out angrily, “But you did.”

Step two: anger.

Metatron smiles, before it twists into something more menacing. Then he sees the broadcasting machine, turned on, already having informed all the angels in Heaven and Earth of all that Metatron had done.

He makes the most minimal movement, a half-step to where Castiel was cuffed, but the doors banging open distracted both angel and scribe. It’s enough to startle Cas out of his terrible grief, glossing it over and pushing it aside for later when he sees Hannah and several other angels enter.

His old second-in-command immediately grabs Metatron, who, unsurprisingly, doesn’t try to put up a fight now that his power is gone. Two other angels move towards Cas, and he doesn’t say anything as they wrangle off the handcuffs. He feels the pain pulsing inside him, dim but present, and he wonders slowly if somehow he has regressed back to denial.

Castiel gets up, slow and weary, betraying an age he’d never felt before. Hannah gives him a slightly concerned look, and he feels like letting out a bitter laugh. Instead, he simply shakes his head, shoving her worry away as he drowns his internal agony beneath something he no longer has; purpose.

_To save Dean Winchester. That was your goal, right?_

His eyes squeeze shut and grits his teeth. The pain is ebbing and flowing, hurtling to the surface of his emotions one moment, then sinking under his false calm and steadiness.

_To save Dean Winchester._

“Are you alright?”

_Dean Winchester._

“Castiel?”

_Dean._

“Cas?”

The use of the nickname makes him suck in a surprised, pained breath. He opens his eyes and sees Hannah, still clutching at Metatron. The concerned look is back on her face, but Castiel averts his eyes from her similarly blue ones.

“I’m fine.” He says, his voice quiet and rough.

Metatron smiles blandly. “No you’re not.” He taunts.

Castiel’s head snaps up and he growls out, “You just killed the man I- The best man I’ve ever known, _Metatron_.” He lays on his disgust with the name, a vicious reminder that Metatron wasn’t God, and never will be. “Don’t test me.”

The scribe doesn’t cower in the face of Castiel’s sudden fury, but the angel can see a flicker of fear in his eyes. Hannah, on the other hand, is staring at them both in complete shock, and Cas realizes that she hadn’t known about Dean’s death.

Dean’s death.

The words sour in his stomach, his lungs, his very bloodstream. It makes him feel as if he should throw the words out, expel them from his body, or bury them deep beneath the surface where he’ll never find them again.

“The Winchesters are... Dead?” Hannah says, her voice blank with shock.

Metatron smirks again. It makes Castiel want to smite him where he stands. “No, no. Just dear little Dean.”

Castiel knows that knowledge that Sam is still alive should bring some relief. Instead, it just makes the pain sharper, as he realizes that Sam is going through the same agony that he is right now.

_I’m sorry. I should have been there._

Then, an afterthought. _I should be there. Now._

But the thought of being faced with Dean’s soulless, lifeless corpse ignites a sick dread within him, something that makes him think that if he sees Dean dead, he’ll start crying and never stop. He can’t do that. Not to Sam. Not to Dean. Not to himself, as selfish as it sounds.

He follows Hannah blindly as she leads Metatron to Heaven’s prison. He watches silently as Metatron is pushed into one of the cells, and vaguely recalls how mere minutes before his world had shattered, he had occupied one of them. Yet, it seemed as if that had happened centuries ago.

“It’s what a leader would do.”

Those words alone are enough to make Castiel’s attention to snap back to the present. He loathes that word now. Leader.

“I’m no leader, Hannah. I never was.” He replies firmly, fixing her with an unwavering gaze. But seconds later, it drops. “I just want to be an angel.”

It isn’t a lie, exactly. He does want to be an angel now.

_I don’t want to feel anymore. I don’t want to cause any more suffering. I want to heal again. I want Dean back._

He shoves the last thought away viciously, and immediately sees Hannah’s pitying gaze. The black hole that’s been occupying stomach stretches wider, threatening to swallow any composure he has left.

“I’m going to-” He begins, but doesn’t manage to finish his sentence before he’s turning away and walking away briskly. He doesn’t look back to see Metatron’s taunting expression.

 

\---

 

Even as grief threatens to consume him, Castiel manages to find scraps of calm and reason left among the agony and despair filling his mind. But there’s only one thing that he wants to do, besides mourn.

He takes as many pathways through Heaven as possible, and as his destination comes closer, his heart starts to beat more erratically in his chest, pulling out faster and faster breaths, until he thinks he’ll somehow explode.

When he steps into the grassy field, he feels himself choke up. Dean’s Heaven is still here. He remembers this place; although he would never admit it to either Winchester, he had often come to their personal Heavens after that stint with Zachariah. It had soothed him, to see them both so happy in each other’s memories.

It would be a lie for Castiel to say he’d been secretly, desperately hoping that somehow, Dean had gotten through the veil. That he would be here, waiting for Castiel.

But there was just a field. An Impala, parked on the side road, and an abandoned crate of fireworks in the center of the grass.

He feels the agony swell up, and this time, he’s unable to stop the choked, horrible sound that comes out of his throat. He takes one feeble step forward, but his legs buckle and he lands on the grass. He presses his face into the ground, taking a deep shaky breath before his shoulders begin to shake.

Castiel’s never cried before. He has felt the sting of tears before, yes, but he had never allowed them to stream from his eyes as they were doing now. He presses his face further into the ground, and allows another sob to rip through him.

_It’s not fair._

The words are vengeful, angry.

_It’s not fair. Of all the people in world, why-_

He takes a gasping breath, wanting, desperately hoping that the pain will stop. That he’ll be able to crawl out of this pit of despair that’s dragging him down, down, down, that he’ll be able to keep living with this terrible grief threatening to tear his very being apart, grace and all. With nothing else to do, he prays.

_Please. **Please**._

He doesn’t know who he’s praying to. God, Dean, an angel... It doesn’t matter. Whoever that can hear him, whoever can reanimate the most important man in the universe.

_Please. Bring him back. If not for my sake, then for Sam’s. I’ll do anything. I’d give my life for him._

Step three: bargaining.

No one answers his futile prayer. Another wave of despair crashes into him, knocking any semblance of normalcy away again. He cries properly then, a stream of grief-stricken sounds pouring out of his mouth, while tears dribble down his face. He knows that he would seem pathetic to any person, angel or human, if they could see him now. But to be frankly honest, he can’t bring himself to care. The new wounds in his mind are too deep.

He cries and cries, mourning a mortal man he’ll never see again. A man he would do anything for. Die, live, kill. Anything that Dean Winchester asked of him. He gasps out another pained sound.

_Dean. Dean Dean Deandeandeandean-_

He screams, a wail of agony that echoes throughout the entirety of Heaven, that rings in every angel’s ears. It rips through the air, a sound of pain so pure that it makes every angel to hear it to stop, and to feel their own pain blossom in their chests like dying flowers.

Dean Winchester is dead.

A terrible, horrible mockery of Castiel’s words when he’d dragged Dean out of Hell all those years ago. His mark upon the Righteous Man’s soul, he’d cried out, buoyant and prepared to face the future.

Dean Winchester is saved.

Dean Winchester is dead.

The anguish of the thought is unbearable.

His sobs eventually die, and although the torment doesn’t leave him, Castiel feels it sink to the back of his mind. Eventually, he lies there, a hollowed husk, his emotions scraped out and leaving a gaping hole within him.

The angel wonders tiredly if he could just sleep here, and never wake up. If he could let the world spin on, a world just that much darker without the brightness that was Dean Winchester’s vibrant soul.

Step four: depression.

It’s then that Castiel recalls the Kübler-Ross model. Four steps, already done and gone in the space of a few hours. He knows that he’ll never come to step five.

**Author's Note:**

> Can you guys tell I'm a bit upset?


End file.
